


baby one more time

by brophigenia



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Blow Jobs, Broning, Exhibitionism, Friends With Benefits, Frottage, Getting Back Together, Hand Jobs, Hockey, Joseph Kavinsky Lives, Junior year, M/M, Polyamory, Prokopenko (Raven Cycle) Lives, Recreational Drug Use, Riding, Underage Drinking, i should be working on finals or packing for vacation, jiang is so done with everyone's shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 03:07:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19220329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: “Proko.” He barks, uncharacteristically loud. “I swear to fucking God, if you don’t shut the fuck up—“ Proko leers at him, all stuck-out ears and invisible white eyebrows and a zit on his chin, licking his lips theatrically.“You gonna do something about me, J?” He purrs, and not for the first time Jiang wishes he’d gone to fucking Shattuck instead of ending up at Aglionby with Proko as his d-partner.“Murder.”He says grimly, and then goes to beg their manager for a fistful of Tylenol.(AKA, Jiang suffers eternally, plays hockey, and is fed up by everyone and everything. With sexy results.)





	baby one more time

**Author's Note:**

> Should I be doing homework right now? Yes. 
> 
> Am I? Hell to the nah.

_ you see my problem is this:  _

_ i’m dreaming away,  _

_ wishing that heroes truly exist  _

_ *** _

Proko speaks _really bad_ French. Like, if there was a scale, and _zero_ was ‘cannot speak French’ then Proko would be like, a _negative_ _six._ It would be hilarious if it wasn’t so terrible; he speaks French like a drunk Russian bear with a toothache. It’s horrible, offensive, painful to the ear and Canadian national pride. Hell, probably painful to _Mexican_ national pride. That’s how fucking bad it is. 

Still, he persists, even at five fucking o’clock in the morning when Jiang has not had coffee, pedialyte, nor even Ibuprofen. Jiang rolls into the hotel lobby to hear Proko obnoxiously  _ trying  _ to call Brucie a  _ fucking pigeon  _ but  _ actually _ asking him if he fucks current events. Sort of. It’s got Jiang’s head fucking pounding already. 

“Proko.” He barks, uncharacteristically loud. “I swear to fucking God, if you don’t  _ shut the fuck up—“  _ Proko leers at him, all stuck-out ears and invisible white eyebrows and a zit on his chin, licking his lips theatrically. 

“You gonna do something about me, J?” He  _ purrs, _ and not for the first time Jiang wishes he’d gone to fucking Shattuck instead of ending up at Aglionby with  _ Proko _ as his d-partner. 

_ “Murder.”  _ He says grimly, and then goes to beg their manager for a fistful of Tylenol.

He could tell already that it was gonna be a  _ long  _ bus ride back to Henrietta. 

***

“Cuddle  _ me,”  _ Proko whines, when he comes down the aisle headed towards the bathroom and sees Thrasher passed out snoring with his head on Jiang’s shoulder. “Wake the fuck up, rook.” He snaps, grabbing a fistful of mussed mullet and tugging until Thrasher is swearing and coming half out of his seat. “Go sit with Grommet.” He demands, and then apparently abandons his mission to go piss in favor of plopping down in the recently-vacated seat and wrapping all his limbs around Jiang, who did not ask for any of this. 

He does puts his earphones in, keeping his mouth blessedly shut, but then Jiang is subjected to the tinny strands of the  _ Backstreet Boys’ Greatest Hits Vol. 3 _ that escape. Proko months along with every song, his saliva and tongue making ticking, gurgling little sounds the whole time. 

Jiang’s eye twitches.  _ u think k would be pissed if i killed p,  _ he texts Swan. 

_ lmao lmao lmao lmao,  _ Skov texts back, no doubt having read it over Swan’s shoulder. 

Swan opens the text, reads it, and responds only with a dick pic on Snapchat. It’s a good picture, well-lit and with balanced composition, but it doesn’t do anything to answer Jiang’s question. 

“Oh!” Proko crows, peering at the Snap as its timer counts down. “Tell Swan I said hi.” He smushes his face into Jiang’s collarbone. It is not comfortable at all. Proko smells like vodka and women’s body wash. His hoodie hasn’t been washed in the three years they’ve been at Aglionby, because apparently detergent washes away luck as well as dead skin cells and sour sweat and actual dried fucking  _ jizz  _ on the right sleeve’s cuff. 

Jiang wishes dearly for the sweet release of death. Maybe a horrifying bus accident. 

_ cum overrrr when ur back bitches  _ K texts him and Proko both, no doubt looking to get his dick sucked. 

Jiang rolls his eyes and puts in his earphones, cranking up the volume as high as it will go. Proko is drooling into the crook of his neck. 

***

K is lying naked in bed with one sock on and the speakers cranked up so high it visibly vibrates his gold chain against his bony sternum.  _ Rack it up rack it up turn around and lemme see you b-b-b-back it up,  _ the speakers say, and Jiang has to physically restrain himself from mumbling  _ shawty got ass like a mothafucka _ out of sheer Stockholm Syndrome, Pavlovian response. The modern prep school version of a Gregorian chant. 

His parents sent him to Aglionby to learn Latin and win hockey games _ ,  _ Jiang thinks with no small amount of exasperation even as he’s climbing onto the mattress and putting his mouth on K’s mostly-soft cock. 

“Mm,” K groans, burying one hand into Jiang’s hair. “Where’s Prokes?” Jiang rolls his eyes, mumbles  _ I fucking killed him  _ around his mouthful, teeth scraping just enough to make K’s whole body twitch. 

“Aw, are my boys not playing nice? Sharing is—“ K stops crooning obnoxiously to groan and then resumes, because he’s never  _ not  _ talking. Jiang’s head is still fucking aching.  _ “Caring. _ Kiss and make up for daddy.” 

_ Daddy.  _ Jiang rolls his eyes again and reaches up to give K’s left nipple a sharp twist, effectively shutting him up. He flexes his hips, rude as hell and making Jiang gag violently not once, not twice, but three fucking times. His come tastes like he’s not had a drink of water in six business days and has only consumed three Jolly Ranchers in that span of time. It’s probably true. K’s hipbones jut out more than they did before Jiang left on the roadie three days ago. He’s thin in the cheeks, too, not quite as skeletal as he was when they were sophomores and doing like, truckloads of coke, but still enough to be worrisome. 

Jiang’s hard in his shorts and he thinks of shouldering K’s legs apart and fucking into him, slicking up and just going for it because K would _ let him, _ for how bratty and demanding he acts. K would let himself be fucked until he was bleeding, would  _ ask  _ for it, goad Jiang into hurting him even worse, intentional instead of careless. It’s something he  _ does,  _ because they  _ aren’t  _ doing truckloads of coke and taking fistfuls of drugs anymore and this is the only real way he can hurt himself anymore. Apathetic starvation and risky sexual behavior. 

The worst thing about K isn’t that he’s a piece of shit and a bit of a psychopath. The worst thing about K is that he thinks he’s worse than he is, and is the most utterly self-loathing person Jiang has ever met. 

(Including Declan Lynch. And  _ that’s  _ saying something.)

Jiang is hard in his shorts. “Let’s go get some fucking Arby’s.” He says, damn the team’s nutritionist and Coach Zimmerman’s carb-counting obsession. K blinks, naked and too-young around the eyes, exhausted with bruise-like indentions beneath them that Jiang has the urge to wipe away like an errant spot of paint. He’s horribly beautiful. Jiang’s tongue goes a little numb when he thinks about K being…  _ not here,  _ panic rising in his gut. 

“Okay, fucker,” K says finally, and pulls on the sweatpants that Jiang throws at him with force, freeballing nonchalantly. He pulls on an ancient crewneck that was draped over one of the standing lamps like a holey, much-washed cotton fern, dripping from its perch, and doesn’t complain when Jiang makes him put on a coat overtop, too, even consenting to wearing  _ two  _ socks, instead of just the one. It’s too cold outside for K to be half-naked and too-thin. Jiang is wearing shorts, but he’s from Van-fucking-couver, and he eats enough in a day to sustain a bull, probably. “But you’re paying, and I want  _ two  _ orders of curly fries.” 

“Bitch,” Jiang says fondly, and tucks K up to his side like he’s a girl or a ghost, anything but  _ Joseph Kavinsky, Former Drug Lord, Possible God.  _ “I’m driving.” 

***

“Listen, babe,” Declan had said, sharp as glass around the edges and his impenetrable gaze hidden behind opaque sunglasses, using the same tone he usually reserved for his girlfriends. And particularly insufferable parking attendants. He looked like such a douchebag. That was because he  _ was  _ such a douchebag, but Jiang had let himself forget all of that, mostly because of the way Declan looked directly post-orgasm, loose and smiling and all-too-handsome, y’know, if you were into a Eurocentric standard of beauty or, like,  _ had eyes.  _ “We’ve had fun, hanging out, but it’s not going to go anywhere.” 

Jiang’s mouth had tasted so sour, listening to those words and watching Declan wall himself up behind bricks labeled  _ dead catholic daddy  _ and  _ respectability  _ and  _ internalized homophobia  _ and  _ fear.  _ Declan’s family was as new-money as it was possible to be, him the first generation of millionaires with the surname  _ Lynch,  _ and as much as Declan liked to pretend the silver spoon he enthusiastically deepthroated on the regular was an heirloom, it practically still dangled sales tags. Jiang had listened to him and clenched his fists at his sides, wanting to strike out and kick Declan’s ass.  _ How fucking dare you,  _ he’d thought, but not said, because this was the 21st Century and neither one of them was named Lord Byron. 

“Man, fuck you,” Jiang had told him, rolling his eyes and baring his teeth. “Fuckin’ coward-ass closet case.” And that had been that, because he’d turned away and walked off before Declan could even rearrange his features into disaffection, flinching back from Jiang’s dismissal and accusation both. 

(Well, that had not really been  _ that;  _ he’d ended up crying in Swan and Skov’s dorm room, drunk as a skunk on a Tuesday afternoon, and then vomited most of Wednesday, and then ill-advisedly answered Declan’s own drunken Wednesday night booty call-slash-goodbye fuck, but  _ that  _ had been the end of  _ that.  _ Mostly. So what if he still sometimes answered Declan’s late-night Snaps? It was his fucking business.) 

***

“Racing stripes, baby!” Proko whoops excitedly from the bathroom over the sound of the clippers and the Jetpack Jones album playing like particularly-turnt elevator music, ambient as fuck and only making Jiang grin wider, stoned and  _ happy.  _ “Frozen  _ Fourrrrr,  _ bitches!” 

“Frozen Four!” Jiang shouts, echoing, and squirms on the futon until he can get his hand down the front of his sweats, curling it fondly around his shaft, half-hard but starting to get interested. He gets in a half-dozen strokes before Proko appears in the doorway sporting some slightly-wonky racing stripes, three above each ear like he thinks he’s Patrick Kane. Proko grins, wicked and dirty and objectively not at all hot, licking his lips again. Jiang honestly can’t tell if it’s a tic or a  _ move.  _ With Proko, anything’s possible. He’s an impossible thing, himself. 

“Suck my dick.” He says, rolling his eyes, when Proko, dumb with all the primo weed they’d smoked in celebration after the win that clinched their spot in the  _ Frozen fucking Four, baby!,  _ just stands and stares. 

Proko, because he is both a dreamthing with no shame (or gag reflex) and a teenage boy with a hair trigger, very nearly trips and brains himself in his scramble to get on the futon and get his mouth on Jiang’s dick. Jiang imagines having to explain to Coach Zimms that no, Proko  _ won’t  _ be playing first line in the Frozen Four game,  _ sorry,  _ because he died of blunt force trauma to the head trying to suck some cock. 

Coach Zimms would be zero percent surprised, Jiang thinks, but also one hundred percent  _ homicidally pissed.  _ It’s just as well that Proko  _ doesn’t  _ die before he can get Jiang’s sweats around his knees and his cock nestled right in there with Proko’s tonsils. 

It’s a great blowjob, which is honestly annoying, but Jiang always ends up being in a more forgiving mood towards Proko’s entire ridiculous being when he’s post-coital, so he gives the little shit a handy and doesn’t complain  _ too much  _ when he ends up being aggressively backpack spooned by six feet of blonde Bulgarian fuckboy clone. 

At least Proko doesn’t snore. 

***

“Harvard,” Skov mumbles under his breath as he’s typing, chewing on his St. Christopher medal and blinking hard behind the lenses of his glasses. He’d loudly complained about dry-eye earlier, taking out his contacts and throwing them onto the fucking carpet in the middle of the library without a care, producing his hipster-ass glasses from the depths of his black hole of a backpack. It was disgusting. “Harvard, Harvard, Harvard.” 

“Hey, Elle Woods,” Swan says, reclined leisurely in a nearby chair and reading something that wasn’t even assigned for their Literature final, because he is a nerd and possibly an actual robot, Jiang has  _ suspicions.  _ “You want Nino’s?” 

At the mention of food, heads all across the library dart up from their frantic cramming. Jiang gives them the stare-down until they duck their heads again, making it clear that it’s not an open offer. Skov blinks at them both, like he’s just noticed they’re there. 

“Nino’s?” He repeats stupidly, like the concept of food is completely foreign to him and he survives on photosynthesis alone. 

“Nino’s,” Swan confirms with a nod, and then grins. “Little midnight delight, huh, Duck?” 

_ That  _ has Skov looking a little more human, sucking even more intently on the gold chain and pendant in his mouth while the bridge of his nose goes a little pink. It’s ridiculous, Jiang thinks. Skov would fall asleep before they’d finished working Swan’s frankly  _ monstrous  _ cock into his ass. He’s got his doubts that Skov’s even really awake  _ now,  _ and not just like, sleepwalking. Sleep paper writing. 

“Midnight,” Skov mumbles, and then his hands start to tremble. “Fucking French test in seven hours and twenty-nine minutes.” He states blankly, drawing moans of dread from the peanut gallery. He goes back to typing furiously, but also stuffs earbuds in, no doubt listening to the French vocabulary recordings he’d downloaded to listen to during workouts, repeating  _ omelette du fromage  _ as he did deadlifts in the gym. 

Swan’s lips quirk up at the very corners, watching Skov intently for a few more minutes before turning his attention back to his book.  _ Blanquerna,  _ untranslated. 

Jiang goes back to studying, and again wishes for either a time machine or death, imagining himself at Shattuck, wearing a polo shirt and probably participating in a wholesome study group with a bunch of Canadian jocks. 

“Je vais mourir,” Skov mutters, and then, again, with feeling,  _ “Harvard.”  _

***

They win Nationals, get the fucking  _ title,  _ and Jiang spends the next two days blackout drunk. He wakes up on the third day to the chirruping email notification from his phone announcing that final grades have been posted online, sprawled out open-mouthed on an unfamiliar bed and very decidedly  _ not  _ in a dorm. 

The bed is pretty big, and it’s got Egyptian cotton sheets, and even before Jiang looks at the bland-ass wall art he knows where he’s at. “Fucking  _ Declan Lynch,”  _ he groans, and then lurches up to go vomit in what is hopefully an en suite bathroom and  _ not  _ a closet. 

He takes a shower while he’s in there, scowling pettily at the perfectly-white grouting between the black tiles and flat-out refusing to pay close attention to the toiletries lined up on the ledge. He doesn’t want to know if Declan’s got  _ someone.  _ He uses Declan’s toothbrush and doesn’t rinse it off afterwards, striding back out to look for his pants so he can get the hell back to Henrietta. Alexandria is for the damn birds, and politicians. 

And  _ Lynches.  _

Declan is sitting on the edge of the newly-made bed. 

He’s not wearing a suit; he’s obviously just come back from a run, shirt sticking to his broad shoulders with sweat, white cotton gone translucent in spots that Jiang wants to  _ lick.  _

“Congrats on the win, bro.” Declan says, heavy on the irony, offering up a timid kind of smirk. Cautious. He makes Jiang so  _ angry.  _

“Thanks, Lynch.” He snipes back, frosty. Furious. Still so  _ into him  _ it makes his teeth ache, back in the molars. 

Declan winces. “You want me to call you a Lyft?” He offers, lamely, but doesn’t bother averting his eyes when Jiang drops his towel to pull on the clothes he’d apparently shown up in, black jeans and his unwashed team sweater, too-big and ridiculous without his pads. No underwear. Reeking of vomit and Four Lokos. Fucking  _ classy.  _ He’s not sure how he ended up passed out in Declan Lynch’s bed, but he suspects Proko. 

“I’d rather  _ walk.”  _ Jiang says, baring his teeth in something that’s really not a grin at all. 

“J,” Declan sighs, and kneads at his own forehead, like he’s tired of  _ Jiang’s  _ shit. 

“Don’t,” Jiang snaps, warning, and uses his last two percent of battery to get an Uber. 

***

“The champion returns,” K says, smiling small and genuine, only a  _ bit  _ mocking, when Jiang shows back up after his six hundred dollar Uber ride, going straight to the house and not back to the dorms. All the boys are there, even Proko, though he looks more dead than alive, sprawled on the floor like a starfish and grinning so wide and loopy that he looks in danger of splitting open the stitched-up gash in his upper lip from where he’d taken a high stick in the second. Jiang’s got raw, cut-up knuckles from the fight that had resulted, Proko bloody-faced and escorted off the ice by a medic and one of their rookies and the guy who’d done it grinning all smug. 

(He’d not been grinning when Jiang was through with him.) 

“Shut the fuck up,” Jiang mutters, only a token protest, and then starts stripping off, playoffs-lean and face still unshaven, though the growth of his beard is really pathetic. At least it’s not as bad as Proko’s. By the time he’s naked, K has leaned forward a bit, eyebrows cocked and eyes gone dark,  _ interested.  _

“I get Declan Lynch’s sloppy seconds?” He asks, making like he’s being all precious about it. Jiang’s shoulders tighten and his jaw clenches. He may love K with a ferocity bordering on unhealthy, probably closer to hate than is allowable, but sometimes he just wants to punch the guy’s fucking lights out. 

“Not sloppy,” he contradicts, and then slings a leg over K’s hips, straddling him. “Open me up,” he demands, and starts working on a garish hickey right over K’s carotid. “I’m a national champion.” 

“Solid gold, baby,” K purrs, all intentional sleaze, but nimbly catches the lube that Swan tosses him from the other couch and gets to work. He’s a dick but he’s fucking  _ gifted  _ in the sack, Jiang has to admit. At least when it comes to  _ this,  _ thorough with his fingers and in no hurry over it, adding two fingers only after he’s got Jiang’s stomach muscles trembling, three when he’s visibly twitching. It makes riding him that much easier, K’s head tipped back and his eyes slitted, whole body gone relaxed and easy, just watching Jiang work. 

When Jiang comes, it streaks K from chest to nose. He licks up the spatters on his lips like the cat that got the canary, looking so pleased with himself. Jiang only has to rock a couple more times, half-hearted and cross-eyed with overstimulation, before K’s hands are clenching down on his thighs and he’s coming too, shuddery and languid. 

Skov and Swan give a light round of golf claps when Jiang rolls out of K’s lap and flops down onto the floor next to Proko, who may either be asleep or in a coma. 

Jiang flips them off and closes his eyes, tucking his face into the crook of his elbow. Someone throws a blanket overtop of him, and Proko curls an arm around his waist, snuffling sleepily into his ear. He’s slept in worse conditions, all in all. The victory is still fresh in his gut. He could sleep on the goddamn moon. 

***

“I fucked up,” Declan says, leaning up against the side of his Volvo and wearing those stupid sunglasses again, arms crossed over his frankly ridiculously-distracting chest. 

Jiang squints at him, just-released from his final class of the year. He looks like some kind of James Bond mirage, if James Bond was trying to disguise himself as like, the undersecretary to the Secretary to the Treasury. Something mundane and bureaucratic. 

“Yeah,” Jiang agrees. “You did.” 

Declan’s answering wince is satisfying, even if it leaves a bad aftertaste on Jiang’s tongue. 

“I’m sorry.” He says, and Jiang can tell he wants to hunch his shoulders, make himself smaller. 

“Take those fucking glasses off.” Jiang sighs, and then wraps one arm around Declan’s neck and the other around his waist, planting a hand firmly on Declan’s ass while the other pushes into Declan’s meticulously-coiffed black curls. The kiss is like all the other kisses they’ve shared; all heat, all teeth, full of something deep and exciting, the kind of thing you don’t get tired of. 

“Yours?” Declan murmurs, like it’s a question. Like Jiang might say  _ nah, I’m just gonna fuck you here on the asphalt.  _

The thought is… not unappealing. 

His dorm bed is better, though. Declan goes down onto the cheap, unwashed sheets with only the mildest curl of disgust on his lips. He looks at Jiang like he’d let him do whatever he wanted. Jiang’s fingers itch with the want to backhand him across that granite-carved face. Declan would let him. Like K, he’s got issues a mile wide that make him both improbably hot and really rather concerning in terms of the (very) short list of his personal boundaries. 

Jiang wants to stretch him out, make him beg for it. 

Jiang wants all kinds of things. 

“Lick,” he demands instead, presenting his palm while his other hand gets to work opening both of their pants, wrapping his saliva-coated fingers around them both, together, just holding them together while his hips roll and do all the work. Declan’s mouth falls open, slick and pink, and he groans low in his throat with every thrust of their cocks together. It’s freshman shit, and not even all that impressive, but Declan shudders like nobody’s ever touched him before, even though Jiang’s got a long list of memories in his spank bank to contradict that. 

“Don’t pull that shit again.” Jiang says, low, a warning, and comes after Declan does, wiping his hand on Declan’s expensively-tailored Oxford. Declan is so incoherent that he doesn’t even offer up a protest, just mumbles unintelligibly and lays still, quiet, visibly introspective. He looks like a marble statue, carved and displayed in a church, some serene martyr burning on the pyre but not caring about the flames. 

***

“Another year down.” Proko says, perched on the hood of K’s replacement Mitsu, sprawled like a king on a throne. K lets out a peal of laughter, across the field, lighting up a line of fireworks while Skov and Swan take videos for their Stories. Jiang sighs, content, and takes another pull off the bottle of Standard he’d very narrowly convinced the boys  _ not  _ to duct tape to his hand. 

“Pretty good one,” he comments, and doesn’t shake off the hand that Proko cups around his cheek. 

“Gonna be even better next year. Seniors, baby.” Proko drags him in close, close enough that he’s just a blur. “Best chemistry on the whole damn team, baby.” He’s so drunk he’s almost sober again. Jiang kisses him, because it’s Proko, and he does love the dumbass even if he’s got stupid ears and is objectively the most annoying person to ever draw breath. 

“Are you sluts done making out or do we gotta wait for you to finish?” K bellows. “Watch this shit!” 

The fireworks burst overhead, impossibly bright and close and  _ huge.  _ Dreamt up. K is grinning, his pearl-white teeth taking on the colors of the pyrotechnics, purple and green and blue. 

***

_ if you wanna be my lover _

_ you gotta get with my friends _

_ gotta get with my friends _

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


End file.
